Overnight, King's Landing changed.
News of the Queen's confinement to Maegor's Holdfast—guarded by both Kingsguard and City Watch—spread like wildfire through the Red Keep.
The king had ordered silence. But how could such a scandal stay secret?
It was already whispered in every corner. No secret at all.
Nobles gossiped in private. Their eyes followed Lannisters with unspoken judgment.
Lynn was in the tower courtyard. Getting used to his black plate armor.
Master Donal's craftsmanship was exquisite. Not as light as Valyrian steel, but the protection and joint flexibility far surpassed ordinary knight's armor.
Storm seemed to sense the coming battle. The mare paced restlessly. Snorted.
A figure appeared at the courtyard gate.
Gray robes. Neat goatee. A perfectly calibrated smile.
Petyr Baelish.
Behind him, two servants carried a heavy chest.
"Lord Lynn. You seem to have recovered well."
Littlefinger's voice had that oily smoothness.
He didn't mention yesterday's assassination.
But his eyes went straight to the black shire mare.
Deep in his gaze—a flicker of hunger.
"Thanks to you, Lord Baelish."
Lynn stopped. Removed his helmet. Face expressionless.
"I'm just a rough man. Used to dealing with wildlings beyond the Wall. Body's tough enough."
"Ha. You're too modest, ser."
Littlefinger waved. His servants opened the chest.
Clink.
Gold dragons. A whole chest.
In the morning sun, they blazed with dizzying light.
Enough to drive any sellsword or knight mad.
"I heard you came all the way from the North. A hard journey."
Littlefinger's smile was pure temptation.
"King's Landing is expensive. A small token. Please accept it."
Lynn glanced at the gold. His eyes didn't flicker.
"Lord Baelish, we're not friends. I can't take this."
"No, no. We'll be friends today."
Littlefinger walked toward Storm. Reached out to stroke the mare's mane.
Storm snorted. He jerked back.
"What a temper!"
He sounded admiring. But his eyes flashed with distaste.
"Strong build. Matches your presence, ser."
Then he showed his hand.
"Only... jousting requires explosive speed. Sprint power."
"Shire horses have endurance. But speed? They lack."
"I happen to know a Dornish horse trader. He has a purebred sand steed."
"Fast as the wind."
"Lord Lynn, ride that into the lists, and the champion's crown is yours."
"As for your Storm..."
Littlefinger gestured at the gold.
"She's not suited for jousting. But I personally admire such spirited horses."
"I'll pay this price for her. Call it friendship. What do you say?"
Flawless.
He'd pointed out Storm's "flaw." Offered a "better" option. Framed it as "I'm taking a loss to be your friend."
Anyone who didn't know better would be grateful for this "timely help."
At the very least, they'd feel goodwill.
But Lynn knew exactly what Petyr was.
Lynn looked at him. Nearly laughed.
This bastard really thought he was some Northern hick.
"I appreciate the offer, Lord Baelish."
Lynn put his helmet back on. His voice muffled behind the iron.
"But I have a problem. I don't warm up to strangers."
"My horse has the same problem."
"She's with me now. She's my companion. Not merchandise."
Littlefinger's smile froze.
He hadn't expected such a generous offer to be rejected without hesitation.
A Night's Watch ranger. A crow who could die beyond the Wall any day. Unmoved by a chest of gold dragons?
Illogical!
Did he know something?
"Lord Lynn. Won't you reconsider?"
Littlefinger's tone hardened.
"This gold could buy you a mansion in the best district. Surround yourself with the most beautiful women."
"Or. Name your price."
"Oh?"
Lynn turned. Looked at him through the cold visor.
"Any price?"
"Of course." Littlefinger's confidence returned.
He didn't believe anyone didn't love money.
Lynn held up one finger.
"One million gold dragons."
"Plus all your brothels in King's Landing."
The air froze.
Littlefinger's smile vanished completely.
His eyes—always sharp with calculation—now stared at Lynn like he was insane.
One million gold dragons?
Plus all his properties?
This wasn't refusal. This was naked humiliation.
"Lord Lynn. Are you joking?"
Littlefinger's voice went cold.
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Lynn stepped forward. His massive shadow fell over Littlefinger.
"Lord Baelish. My horse isn't for sale."
"If there's nothing else, leave. I need to train."
He'd dismissed him.
Littlefinger's face cycled through shades of red and white. Ugly.
He stared at Lynn. Then at the snorting black mare.
Finally, he turned without a word. Swept away.
The two servants with the gold chest scurried after him.
Watching Littlefinger's humiliated retreat, Lynn felt fantastic.
Old bastard. Want to use me as your pawn? Take advantage of me?
Wait till the tourney starts. You'll cry.
Sansa Stark came again.
No tray this time. Just something wrapped in plain linen cloth.
Her cheeks were flushed. Like she'd mustered great courage to come.
"Lord Lynn." Her voice was barely audible.
"I... I heard you lost your cloak beyond the Wall."
"So... I made you one..."
"I never got to thank you properly."
"For saving Bran. And looking after Arya..."
Sansa held out the bundle.
Her blue eyes full of hope and anxiety.
Lynn took it.
Unwrapped it.
A black cloak.
Southern silk. Finest quality. Cool and smooth to the touch.
Along the hem, silver thread embroidered a lifelike direwolf.
Proud. Defiant. Identical to the Stark sigil.
The stitching was meticulous. Clearly made with great care.
Varys's little birds hadn't lied.
"I love it, Lady Sansa."
Lynn draped the cloak over his shoulders. The black silk merged with his black armor.
"Thank you."
His voice was muffled behind the visor. Hard to read.
But Sansa's eyes lit up instantly.
She looked at him. Black armor. Black cloak. Direwolf sigil.
He wasn't handsome like the princes in songs. Not romantic like the Knight of Flowers.
But standing there, he was an immovable mountain.
A safety she couldn't put into words.
This is a true hero.
Her heart raced.
"The tourney... you'll win, won't you?"
She asked softly.
"Of course."
Lynn's answer was simple. Absolute.
The Hand's Tourney began.
King's Landing erupted in celebration.
The tourney grounds by the Blackwater were packed. Banners everywhere.
King Robert sat on the high platform.
Not beside the Queen. Beside the Hand—Eddard Stark.
Prince Joffrey sat on the other side.
His eyes followed one figure at the arena entrance. Feverish.
Knights from across the Seven Kingdoms entered. Gleaming armor. Magnificent horses.
Jaime Lannister. Golden armor blazing in the sun. Blinding.
Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Silver armor carved with golden roses. Noble ladies screamed.
Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. A body like a mountain. His entrance alone choked the air.
...
When Lynn's turn came, the crowd stirred.
Black plate armor. Black shire mare. Black banner with no sigil.
And that black cloak—silver direwolf embroidered—snapping in the wind.
"Who's that?"
"A knight with no name?"
"He's riding a shire horse? Aren't those for plowing?"
The stands buzzed with whispers. Undisguised laughter.
On the high platform, Eddard Stark saw the cloak. His eyes flickered. Then he sighed quietly.
On the other side, Petyr Baelish held a cup of wine. His lips curled in a cold smile.
Hick.
Thinks he can win jousting on a plow horse?
Wait till you're humiliated.
He'd arranged everything. Just waiting for the show.
Lynn ignored the murmurs.
He rode Storm calmly to the center. Raised his lance toward the king's platform.
His gaze swept past everyone.
Landed on Littlefinger.
Across the distance. Through the cold visor.
Littlefinger felt that gaze like a dagger.
His spine went cold.
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